


Lightbulb Sun

by Ariasune



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, Hetalia OC, Minvade20.13, Shippy Hints, old fic, repost
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:05:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ariasune/pseuds/Ariasune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Things far away looked near, and things nearby were far, shifting and churning in his vision. Against him, England was limp, like the rain that hardly fell, and the long grass."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lightbulb Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Please note, this includes an oc... sort of. She may or may not be an imagining of America's, though I personally lean towards her as an existing nation, it is intended as ambiguous.
> 
> Regardlessly, her name is Mary Klah and she represents the Navajo Nation, however, America refers to her as Navi. I guess I'm a shameless LoZ fan? Mostly I think it's a cute nickname for Navajo Nation, like Ame for America. 
> 
> Small point about their history, originally the Navajo people were exiled from their own land on something called 'the long walk'. They later made a return trip when the land was given back to them, thus forming the navajo nation.
> 
> Whilst there is no word for I'm sorry or Forgive Me in the Navajo language. Instead, they say, 'take it off me' for forgive me and for I'm sorry, they say they 'feel differently now' or 'feel bad about it'. It is a bit of a private joke for the Navajok, that this is why they hold grudges so long.
> 
> Research is very old and was conducted when I was much younger, so if there are any errors please drop me a line.

 

Things far away looked near, and things nearby were far, shifting and churning in his vision, as America palmed his greasy, sweaty hair away from his face. Against him, England was limp, like the rain that hardly fell, and the long grass. America adjusted England gently, keeping England's arm wrapped about his shoulder. He'd tried to carry England, but that only brought the proud nation to alertness; scratching and clawing until America dropped him in the dust. It was better just to hold England up by his arm, even if America was still supporting all of England's thin weight on his shoulder blades; pound for pound, the shorter nation no doubt measured out each of his ragged, overheated breaths in pride. Hazy green eyes, lost in the red-flush of England's face appraised him and he watched back from the corner of his blue eyes.

"Come on, old man," America encouraged. "I thought you had better strength in those legs of yours."

"H' f'r..." England feebly choked the words up, swallowed stiffly about his cumbersome, fumbling  _parched_  tongue. "How far is Mexico?"

The sun beat proudly, triumphantly down on their backs, making the air sizzle up and blur in front of them. America pushed Texas up the bridge of his nose. "Two days, or so." He laughed nervously. "I don't really want to be stuck out here withou' water for any longer than that; it'll be hell dealing with that sort o' death."

England was such a rainy nation; smothered in his clouds, rows and rows of them, dark, like nails hammered into a coffin. America hummed three clear staccato notes. Exactly that sound, the drum of rain and the pound of nails. Nails that scraped on America's bare arm, scraping as England half-slid off. The arm wrapped about England's waist hitched him up, pressing him into America's ribs. America remembered this sort of walk though, long, through the desert, once at gun point and once triumphantly returned to the tumbling acres. He'd let his people be then, waved goodbye at the borders and little Navi - as he called her - stood on her tiptoes until he kissed her gracefully on her forehead. Like long feathers of her hair, that tickled his lips, like she had woven actual feathers into her hair, like that isn't some hideous stereotype he has poured over her like wine.

Like he'd whispered  _in her tongue_  that he was sorry, that he'd always be sorry - that she'd never be able to take it off him.

She had only to stare up at that flickering sun, into a coiled fire, on the curve of her ceiling, any skies, any deserts; stare out at them as they told her  _everything_  he wanted to tell little Navi. Navi who had freed herself from him. That little girl who stood for the Navajo Nation.

America sighed, staring out at the desert, and asking for everything.

England stumbled, feet twisting in the slippery dust, and they both went down, like two wound-up saplings in a stormy night. England wailed like a cat grabbed by its scruff, as America's weight pressed England against the abrasive rocks and sand. America rolled swiftly, pulling England on his chest; no, England was not suited for the desert. Scattered off in the crusted weeds, America's flask bled out onto the rocks. He supposed they would have a few mouthfuls left, but what he knew was he'd give those to England. Later, when England couldn't even swallow at all, and he left his lips all the drier when he licked them, that later, then, he'd give England the precious gulp of water.

America snuffled, half-sneezing at the tickle of dust in it, and peered up at England from lop-sided glasses. All scuffed and smudged with grey-brown grit. "You're not this old, are ya'?" America teased lightly, and England moaned, curling into his chest with uncharacteristic disapproval. "Come on, gramps, you were the one who told me how to fight in Africa, remember?" America summoned his attempt at a British accent. " _This is a dessert, bucko._ " America shook England gently, then roughly until angered green eyes fixed on him with a drowsy sort of fury.

As soon as England had made eye-contact, however, the eyes drifted into a dreamy affection. "You're so beautiful," England slurred. "Got a flare halo of sun on you, you look fucking beautiful in this light." America rolled his eyes.

"Aw, fuck, you're delirious then?"

"God bless America, you plonker." England laughed feebly.

"Definitely delirious." America decided, sitting up with the boneless, jellied but slight and light mess of England cupped in his arms. "Come on now, you brit," England gave a whine as America stood up, bringing England - legs shaky, knees even knocking - up with him. Wrapping England's arm about his neck again, America reached to grab England behind his knees and picked him up no problem.

"Put me down." England snapped about his muzzy tongue.

"Whine whine whine," America whistled gently, and finally England settled his head against America's chest, arm dangling in the air, the bones and elbow hooked over America's shoulder.

The sun England seemed to have been admiring in America's skies, shining through his hair, flickered out past several outcropped rocks, and then winked back in; a muted, gleaming brass colour that spilt on the sand. Reflected on it, and bouncing into the shadows.

If you stared long enough into the desert, it would maybe speak to you. America knew he was speaking to it in every tread of his people over the dust-bowl floor.

America found them a shelter amongst the pooled stones, and sat down heavily, England's dead, limp and papery weight flopping against his ribcage. "You awake there?" America asked, breath falling lightly on England's curved neck. "Yo, dude?" America tried a bit louder, so that his voice was hot desert wind and not a butterfly wing of a noise. Only the slightest hum from England; he must be asleep.

Tipping England ever so slightly back, America saw that England's green eyes had perhaps burnt out somewhere along the way, and were now closed softly against the burn of pale yellow in the sky. Nothing like a city sunset, that lit up like the universe was burning; the air was too clean here for fierce colours, only the purr of the desert, and the orange light settling through the dust. America gave a little shudder as the night touched his arm, inky on the heels on the sunset, and wished he'd remembered his favourite jacket.

Instead, he shifted back against the rocks, trying to get comfortable with the fewest pokes and prods to his lower-back. "You lucky son of a gun," America grumbled, directing the complaint at the napping England curled up over his front. England wouldn't be waking up with a sore back, the lucky bitch. England yawned, wriggling in his sleep. America's dopey smile was replaced with a kinder one, that spoke a lot more clearly than all his desert talk, and holywood beams. A lightbulb smile - like Edison, a tiny filament wire, almost burnt to crisp and worn with shining, gleaming out again, and against the dewy shadows.

"You're so much more agreeable asleep." America absently mumbled. "And you wondered why I always wanted to sleep in your bed whenever you actually got off your ass and visited me, huh?" America rubbed a single finger across England's cracked lips. "Hn." America licked his own dry lips. "You're thirsty, huh?"

"Rainy island hermit." America decided. "You need so much water, don't you? And then you go and knock the flask away." America laughed gently. "We didn't have much anyways, I guess." America curled his face close into England, tucking it in the loose curve of his neck, and felt the pulse pin and flicker on his cheek. "Mhm." England's heart could be so very hard, that it was hard to listen to its echoed thud. The thump of stone, and steel, and Empires. Heartbeat sounding like the pound of nails, thundering down his nerves and leaving America singed.

But here it was just rain, against America, flowing and flickering, a silky punch sound, that was delicate and sure. Graceful, inexorable. Strong. A thump of forest roots, and gray skies, and ocean waves rocking back and forth. The heartbeat rocked America back and forth, leaving his head all soft, and absent-minded. Gentle.

And like a ink droplet, he could have sworn he felt Navi rest her tiny child fingers in his hair, before dancing - slow, footsteps into the dark - off back into the desert, each step telling him where the highway was. This way  _this way_ , speaking to him through the sand. The long walk.

America stirred, eyes fluttering open, and twisted his head to look in the direction he thought she had surely come, she - little sister Navajo, little sister Mary Klah, whose feet he couldn't even look at without wincing - had gone. The sun burnt over the rise, flickered into existence, like a lightbulb, like inspiration. The colour bubbled down England's cheeks, grazing through his hair, and America touched a kiss to England's forehead. Whispered quietly, cheekily, ambiguously in Navajo - _I feel differently now_.

 


End file.
